


Concrete

by medoroa



Series: Three occasions on which 007 got on his knees [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Choking, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, References to Past Underage Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25685227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medoroa/pseuds/medoroa
Summary: In the darkness of the meteorite dome, Franz Oberhauser decides to remind Bond of all the things he taught the boy so many years ago.
Relationships: James Bond/Franz Oberhauser | Ernst Stavro Blofeld
Series: Three occasions on which 007 got on his knees [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176881
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Concrete

**Author's Note:**

> An "imagine if Blofeld had chosen to inflict more direct physical harm on Bond instead of strapping him to that silly chair" Spectre AU.
> 
> Please mind the tags. For the purpose of this fic I imagine Bond and Oberhauser knew each other as teenagers, although no ages are specified in this fic.

He waits with his head down. The air here is dry this time of the year, and in the darkness of the dome, chill enough to remind him of autumn in England. He clenches his fists behind his back, unclenches, repeats; keeping the blood flowing. He has counted to three-thousand-two-hundred-and-four since he woke up here, on his side, shivering as the concrete floor pressed up against his bare skin, his ears ringing from the blow to his head. He had pushed himself up on his knees, but now the coldness in his kneecaps is edging closer to pain. His body heat seeps into the concrete like blood into stone. 

There is a sudden noise, the loud cranking of a lever being pulled. When the spotlight turns on, it lights up the pale grey floor under him and reflects into his eyes, making him squint as he scans his surroundings. The meteorite looms to his left, its illumination off, its gnarled surface craters seeming blacker than black, like bottomless pits. A foot before him, a veil of darkness. 

The dark shifts around him like a large predator. He imagines an Amur tiger, slow, measured, and silent as it tracks him from outside his field of vision. Large, yellow eyes run over his neck, his collarbones, his inner thighs. His skin prickles. He clenches his fists, unclenches. 

He hears the man before he sees him: the rustle of soft fabric, a quiet sigh. Then, splitting the darkness, a man emerges before him, his pale face glowing dimly against the pitch black backdrop — a spectre, Bond thinks to himself, an omen of what is to come. "Let's play our old game again, shall we, James?" Blofeld says, and Bond feels the words curl around his neck like a noose. 

"What's the matter, James?" The voice is gentle and conversational, echoing softly against the far-off walls. A hand reaches out towards him, and the hairs on his neck stand up as a palm presses to his cheek, dry and smooth. There is a hint of cold metal. "No greeting for your dear old brother?" 

"Franz," he says, the name forcing open his constricting throat, sticking to his tongue like bitter pills. 

A chuckle vibrates against his cheek. "Franz Oberhauser died 20 years ago, James. In an avalanche, alongside his father." A thumb presses to his lips. "Alongside the man who taught you to ski, and climb, and hunt. Who soothed the wounds of this poor little blue-eyed orphan." 

Bond closes his eyes as his face is tilted up. Blofeld hums, undeterred, thumb circling against his lips before pushing in, running over tightly clenched teeth. "Who asked me to treat you as a brother." 

Bond notices his breathing become fast and shallow, small whiffs of air catching at the back of his mouth. He forces his jaw to unclench, to open his mouth and drag in a deeper breath; as though on cue the thumb slips past his incisors and lodges itself between his molars, the taste of salty skin spreading on his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah," Blofeld scolds as he turns his head away from the hand, and Bond freezes, letting Blofeld cup his other cheek and gently guide his head back to position: eyes ahead, chin tilted up. 

"You know, my assistant advised that I use an awful brute apparatus to keep you from biting," Blofeld says, voice sounding offended at the mere suggestion. Fingers of his other hand press against Bond's parted lips, pulling them apart further, running over the wet membrane. Bond feels the old scars on the fingertips, the smooth edges of well-manicured nails. The fingers probe his fresh nonchalantly, like someone inspecting an instrument before use. "But I told him, there is no need. Oh, to be sure James is not the brightest bulb in the box, but he knows very well the consequences of his actions." 

There is a pause. In the silence, Bond listens to his own breathing. His diaphragm expands, contracts. Steady, he tells himself. "Open your eyes." He does, slowly lifting his lids and waiting for his pupils to focus on the face looking down at him with a slight crook of the neck. The left corner of the mouth is lifted in a familiar smile. 

"Don't you, James? My little brother." 

Bond's looks steady ahead, letting his view go out of focus, gazing into the darkness beyond the figure before him. "Yes, Franz," he says, dry tongue flicking over fingertips. 

"What a good boy." 

Two fingers push into his mouth and over his tongue. By instinct, he salivates; wet noises echo in his ears as the fingers bend and writhe, knuckles digging into his hard palate and ring brushing against his upper lip. He desperately swallows his spit and breathes through his nose. 

"Oh, look—" Blofeld says, tone somewhere between amused and pleasantly surprised, and the fingers are pulled out of his mouth again, Blofeld reaching further down. "I didn't even notice. Is it the cold, or did you miss me?" Before Bond can realize what the words mean, wet fingers catch one hard nipple and twist it, making his hips jerk and his torso try to lean backwards, away from the pain. It doesn't work; the fingers clamp harder and pull, forcing him back. The hand cupping his cheek pats him a few times, indulgently. 

"Do you enjoy it when your women touch you this way, James?" The fingers release him and Bond's shoulders sag, but instead the hand shifts to his other nipple and flicks it with a thumb. The pleasure is vague, pooling in his gut. "Did she touch you like this — Marlene? Michaela? I'm sorry, I must already have forgotten." 

"Yes, Franz." 

Blofeld laughs, releasing the nipple and holding Bond's face in both hands, forcing their eyes to meet, pale blue to blue. "But you can't blame me, James. The faces of your women are interchangeable, aren't they? Just another passing face on your way to the grave." 

"Yes, Franz." 

A smile spreads across Blofeld's face, reaching his eyes. "I believe I detect a touch of insolence in your voice, James." The eyes scan Bond's face, wide and manic, as hands turn his head this way and that, almost as though Blofeld believes he can penetrate Bond's skull and see into his mind. "Tell me, what should we do about this?" 

Bond doesn't respond. This is a game of play-pretend, orchestrated to reach a predetermined climax, and there has only ever been one answer. 

Blofeld's hands slip from his face and Bond's head drops. He watches, lids heavy, as fingers undo the belt, then the fly. 

The flaccid cock is stuffed into his mouth. It's dry, thick, and fits snugly in his mouth, resting lazily on his tongue. "Unless you are waiting for me to piss down your throat — although if you are, I won't judge — I suggest you get to work." 

And he does. He lets saliva fill his mouth and sucks, sensing the cock slowly harden and lift as blood flows into it, and keeps his nose pressed to the dark blond hairs adorning the base — slightly thicker and coarser than he remembers — even as the plump head pushes against his throat, the cock growing. "You're such a good boy, remembering what I taught you," Blofeld says, and Bond wishes more than anything that someone would stuff his ears as much as his mouth is being stuffed. 

"Do you also remember the shape of my cock, James?" Blofeld casually shoves his hips forward, nudging his cockhead against Bond's soft palate. He chuckles. "Or maybe you have taken so many cocks into your mouth, you can't even keep them separate. Just like your women." 

Bond feels the skin behind his ears flare up. Irrational anger flashes in his mind, along with an impulse to bite off the flesh in his mouth and let the flow of blood choke him; yet, simultaneously, a pang of pleasure shoots from his gut to the tip of his limp cock. Fingers run through his short hair and pat it down behind his ear. "Oh James — remember how your prick would flush red and leak happily as I fucked your little mouth? How you couldn't get enough, would want more and more until your lips were red and puffy? And then you would go out in public, your face looking like a pretty little cunt for everyone to see." 

His neck is caught in a tight grip as he attempts to pull back. He groans, thrashes against the metal restrains around his wrists, and would have bared his teeth in a snarl if it weren't for the cock spreading his lips, growing harder and threatening to break open his throat the more he writhes. Fingers dig into the muscles at the base of his skull, the pain making him flinch and tilt his head up further. His breathing is erratic and loud, and he stares ahead, meeting Blofeld's gaze, willing a bullet between his eyes. 

"You look as though you want to tell me something," Blofeld comments idly, rocking his hips and rubbing the underside of his cock over Bond's tongue as his hands keep Bond's head in place, fucking him like a hole. "That is one disadvantage of giving it to you like this, isn't it? You enjoy it so much, your mouth is wet and tight like a lovely virgin cunt, one that's had its first taste of warm, slippery come and doesn't want to let go before it has another fill..." Blofeld's cock starts to leak as he speaks, the tang and smell permeating Bond's mouth and nose. 

"But it would be even more lovely if I could listen to your inventive array of fruitless insults as I feed you my cock." Blofeld pauses, humming as he pulls back, the length of his cock dragging over the inside of Bond's mouth until there is nothing left, making Bond swallow and lick at his palate and cheeks, chasing the taste. The slick tip of Blofeld's cock rests against his bottom lip, wet with saliva and pre-come. Blofeld shifts his hips, smearing it over Bond's lips and chin. 

"What do you say, James? Has anyone used that other hole of yours? You would have had ample opportunity, I imagine, surrounding yourself with big strong military men like the little whore we all knew you were. Did you flash your boycunt at them, James, just like you flashed your puffy lips? Is your other hole as hungry for come as your mouth?" Blofeld tilts his head, pretending to be considering something. "Maybe you won't be satisfied with just what I can feed you, then. That's fine, we can arrange for something. Or have you been keeping yourself, eager for me to pop your proverbial cherry, as I did with your mouth?" 

Bond breathes in deeply before he speaks. "I'm going to kill you." 

Blofeld laughs. "Next time, perhaps." With that, the fat erection shoves back into Bond's mouth. He relaxes his jaw and lets it happen — bulging veins rubbing against his tongue, lips stretching thin over hard flesh, the fat head popping in and out of his throat, and the rhythm growing faster as the men reach for their climax, this is all familiar, all predictable. And soon, he knows, it will be over. When the head pushes into his throat and stays there, Bond swallows around it, expecting the thick gush of come. 

It doesn't hit. Instead, Blofeld's hand runs over his face, fingertips outlining the shape of his cheekbones, jaw, nose. "Always such an impatient boy. Almost like only come can quench your thirst." Bond turns his eyes upward, Blofeld's other hand still at his nape, keeping his head still. Fingers brush over the soft skin under his eyes, and Bond knows his face is flushed. "Don't worry, I won't pull out. You will drink every drop," Blofeld says with a smile, and covers Bond's nose. 

The fear response is immediate. Bond's eyes shoot open and he his pupils dilate, blurring his vision. Fingers dig painfully into his scalp and force him down as his breathing hitches in his throat, his head thrashing. He attempts to slow the rapid beating of his heart against his ribcage, fails. The cockhead grinds into the back of his throat. Saliva overflows his lips. 

"See, James, the torture is not in the pain." Blofeld's voice is soft and even as he speaks, as though he were oblivious to the throat choking around his flesh and the body writhing at his feet. "It's in your knowledge that I was the one to show you who you are. What you love and crave." His knees scratch against cold, hard floor as his body jerks. "You crave this, James. You always have. Make no mistake — you will have as many cocks as you desire, and you will gratefully take every one being fed to you." He is becoming dizzy now, muscles twitching, eyes rolling back. "I sowed that seed perfectly in you." 

The cock pulls back just as it comes. Bond takes in a deep, wheezing breath; come coats his mouth and throat and he sucks it into his lungs, making him bend forward in a fit of rough coughs, Blofeld stepping away and letting his head fall to the floor, forehead pressing to the concrete. His eyes water and sweat and spit drips to the floor, dark spots spreading under him. 

"Is the flavor as good as you remembered, James?" 

He tries to reply, and only a rasping hiss escapes his throat. He fills his lungs desperately, sucking in the air smelling of come, sweat, and the salty tang of his own tears. Needles prick his skin from the sudden rush of oxygen returning to his bloodstream, and everything is sore; his throat, his arms still pulled back behind him, his knees he must have scratched raw by now, the muscles of his tense legs. He lets his body go, sliding down onto his side, into the fetal position where he first came to. 

"Oh, I almost forgot," he hears Blofeld say above him. Before his starved brain can parse the words, a hot stream of liquid splashes against his side, his shoulder, his face. He jerks but stays put, closing his eyes, waiting for it to stop, for all of this to pass. It's a long piss, as though Blofeld has been keeping it in for him, and as it runs down his cheek and lips and cools under him, Bond wishes he were instead lying in a pool of his own blood. 

He hears a zipper, and watches through half-closed eyes as the dark loafers step out of the spotlight and melt into the dark. Soft footsteps become more faint until they fall silent. Instead, Blofeld's voice echoes against the walls. 

"Next time, do remember your thank-yous." 

The lever creaks, and he is left in darkness. 


End file.
